Son of a Lion
by GabeCC
Summary: There's a reason why victors rarely have children. When Haymitch's only son is marked for punishment, what can he do for the boy? Prepare him for certain death, or give him the tools to fight back? This is the story of Helmand Abernathy and his journey towards discovering who he really is, as well as what he is capable of.
1. Chapter 1

"I wonder if President Snow will insist we have children. If we do, they'll have to face the reaping each year. And wouldn't it be something to see the child of not one but two victors chosen for the arena? Victors' children have been in the ring before. It always causes a lot of excitement and generates talk about how the odds are not in that family's favor. But it happens too frequently to just be about odds. Gale's convinced the Capitol does it on purpose, rigs the drawings to add extra drama. Given all the trouble I've caused, I've probably guaranteed any child of mine a spot in the Games."

-_Hunger Games Catching Fire, Chapter 4_

* * *

><p>The room was empty, the other students having left promptly at the end of class. I sat at a bench near the door to the classroom, swinging my legs nervously as I waited in the silence. The clock on the wall read 3:28pm, almost half an hour after school was let out. I squirmed in my spot, unsure of what I was waiting for. As I waited, I tried to massage the soreness out of the knuckles on my right hand. After a few more minutes, Mrs. Grayand appeared from the hallway, beckoning me to follow her. As we approached the front doors, I recognized the figure standing outside. My father was leaning on the fence post, his face twisted in the expression he made when he'd rather be anywhere but here. Mrs. Grayand shot me a somber look as she reminded me that she didn't want to see "that kind of behavior" again at her school. "I hope you think about what you're going to say to Innis Ulee, tomorrow. You will give him a formal apology in the morning."<p>

I was so mad I could spit. I'd rather take a good beating than apologize to that snot nosed brat. I could just imagine his smug face as I was forced to say I was sorry for what I'd done to him.

I wasn't sure if she caught the look of incredulity on my face before she continued. "You will also turn in a one page report on why you won't be fighting in my school again before you can return to class."

With that, she wished my father a good day and disappeared back into the school. I chanced a glance over at him, almost too scared to be within arms reach. Dad wordlessly turned to walk back to our house, hooking his finger and gesturing for me to follow him. I wasn't sure how he was going to react; I'd never been in this much trouble before. He'd never had to pick me up from school before and Mrs. Grayand called the house to tell him what happened and have him come get me. He'd looked pretty stern until she was out of sight. "So," he finally said after a few moments. "I hear you've been fighting".

I looked up briefly, surprised, but I said nothing. He didn't mean it as a question. Nor was it accusatory. In fact, he seemed almost… proud. He paused to look back at me. "What did he do?"

I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him why I'd really struck Innis Ulee in the face.

"Nothing," I replied.

He scoffed loudly at that. "Come on kid, I'm not stupid. I know you wouldn't go off on someone for no reason."

In reality, I was ashamed to tell him why. Innis was just repeating what the other kids always said. He told me that my dad was a drunk and was a shame to the whole district. But today he went too far. He'd dragged my mother into it, too. He said she was a tramp for choosing to be with my dad. "And you're nothing special yourself, Helmand," he continued. "You look just like the old drunk, and you can't fight neither. You're stupid, too. I guess you fit right in with your parents."

That was what drove me over the edge. I turned around and lunged at Innis, hitting him in the face and throwing punches everywhere else I could. I didn't know if he was taken by surprised or just scared, but he cowered on the ground, covering his head with his arms and begging me to stop. I saw red as I ignored his pleas and continued to whale on him until I felt a hand grab hold of my shirt and yank me up and off the boy. I was so caught up in my own adrenaline that I couldn't hear what Mrs. Grayand was yelling at me as she dragged me into the school, planting me on the bench in the classroom. It took a few minutes for me to cool down, my heart still pounding in my chest. As the other kids filed into the classroom for the afternoon, some shot furtive glances at me, others turned to whisper to their neighbor. Some kids looked scared and even impressed. I couldn't help but smile when I heard him blubbering in the hallway. I did feel a bit proud of myself for making a boy, one who was two years older than me at that, cry like a baby.

That pride melted away pretty quickly as I started to think about what dad would say, especially if he knew why I was fighting. I felt like kicking myself. I'd listened to kids say that stuff to me since I started school. It was nothing new. Why couldn't I just keep it to myself today?

I snapped back into the present when dad nudged my shoulder. "Did you hear me?"

"He told me I can't fight," I muttered. Well, that was part of it, so I wasn't technically lying.

He stood still as he appraised me. I looked defiantly back at him, almost daring him to agree with Innis. I knew that he always felt I was too small for my age, and that I was non-confrontational to a fault.

"Huh," he said disbelievingly as he turned around and continued down the street.

I scowled at his back.

"Look, I don't care if you defend yourself. Just don't do it at your school anymore," dad grumbled over his shoulder. "Your teacher said she'd expel you the next time she catches you going at it."

"Yes sir," I murmured.

The streets were wet and the air was cold, though not bitterly so. Small lumps of gray ice lined the gutters where the snow had melted in the sunlight and frozen over after dark. It was still winter, but spring was almost here. We passed dilapidated shacks and shabby buildings as we made our way through town. Dad trudged along, his back hunched up and his eyes looking straight ahead. He didn't look at me very often. He looked at the people in town even less. The same people never looked at dad- not when they thought he'd notice, at least. I silently thanked him for being sober this afternoon, grateful that I wouldn't have to endure stifled laughter behind my back as I helped him get home. That didn't happen often to begin with, though. Dad rarely came down to the town, save to buy food and… stuff.

We lived on the edge of the district, removed from other neighborhoods. It was unnerving at night because we were the only ones who lived in victor's village. We'd get visitors staying in adjacent houses sometimes, but those times were few and far between.

When we got home, dad headed towards the kitchen to start dinner. He pulled a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and put some bread in the oven. As he fried the eggs, he pulled a bottle of liquor from the cupboard and took a pull from it. I sat at the kitchen table, watching him cook. By the time he put the food on the table and started cutting the bread, he was in a better mood. In what I guessed was an effort to be more pleasant, he decided to talk to me while he cooked. "What did you learn today," he asked as he buttered up a warm slice of bread.

Really, of all the questions he could ask, he picks the one that has the same answer. Every. Day.

I sighed and thought up the most sarcastic response I could think of. "We learned all about the wonderful world of mining and how each and every one of us can contribute to society by fulfilling our purpose here in Panem."

He smirked as he handed me the bread. Like father, like son.

We finished our meal in silence. Dad didn't normally speak much; it wasn't his way. Ever since I could remember, he didn't often speak to me more than he felt was necessary. I took my plate to the sink when I was finished, rinsing it and putting it in the cupboard. I pulled a ball from the front closet and went back outside, kicking the ball down the gravel path. I thought back on the day as I dribbled the ball towards the fence that separated the village from the tributes graveyard. I felt satisfied when I saw Innis being led down the hall by his teacher after recess, a bloody rag pressed against his nose. He got what he deserved. I'd had to listen to taunts from the other kids almost everyday since I started school. I didn't get mad for the reasons they thought, though. I wasn't ashamed of my dad. He wasn't a bad guy. I got upset when they accused him of being a bad father to me. Sure, he was gruff and sarcastic. But he'd been through more than anyone else I knew.

My mom wasn't a tramp, either. She was one of the prettiest girls in district twelve, and dad said she had a "personality and a temper stronger than a bull in a china shop". Dad always said that she was exactly what he after grandma and uncle Foster died. He loved my mom more than anything in the world. "_But, _you never win," was his favorite saying.

Mom died when I was born. So he was stuck with me. Dad started drinking again. Since he'd been drinking as long as I could remember, it was normal to me. It was better than having nobody. Besides, he was nice enough. He rarely yelled at me and he wasn't abusive. For the most part, he left me to do as I pleased.

I coughed as I jogged along the fence, kicking the ball down the incline towards the woods. It was often hard to breathe when the wind kicked up the thin layer of coal that dusted almost everything within the limits of the district. I shielded my eyes as I turned from the wind, waiting for the matter to settle back on the ground.

When I returned to the house, dad was in the parlor. The lights were dimmed and I could barely make him out, sitting hunched over a desk in the corner, a pen clenched in his fist as he clumsily wrote on letterhead paper. I walked over to the couch beside him, collapsing in the middle of it with a huff and looking over the back to see what he was writing. After a few moments I gave up, unable to decipher his handwriting. "What are you doing," I asked.

"Writing a letter," he mumbled, not taking his focus away from the paper.

"To who," I persisted.

"A friend," he said firmly.

I let it be, knowing that was his way of telling me to stop bothering him. Writing letters was about all he did when he was sober enough. Since none of his friends lived in district twelve, it was the only way he could keep in contact with them. You couldn't call anywhere outside the district with a telephone. Not like it was much of any use- besides the mayor's family, and us no other family owned a telephone. Just the school and the Justice building.

After a few minutes, when I finally caught my breath and had grown bored of the silence, I headed up to my room. It was getting dark outside, no sign of the setting sun through the slate gray clouds. I sighed, grabbing a notebook from the bedside table and flopping onto my bed. I flipped to an empty page and started to write the paper I'd been assigned as punishment, but after several minutes I slammed the notebook shut. I couldn't go to school and apologize to Innis. I wouldn't.

My laid back in bed, trying to think of ways to get out of it. I contemplated skipping school altogether, but I knew that I would just be forced to apologize the next day. I could pretend to be sick. But then dad would bring a healer to see what was wrong. Mrs. Everdeen would probably know I was faking, and dad would tear me apart if he found out I was wasting her time. There were other people who actually needed her attention.

My eyelids started to grow heavy as I continued to think of excuses.

* * *

><p>Black. No walls, no trees, nothing. Only black.<p>

I was running as fast as I could through the blinding darkness, but no matter how hard I tried, I felt like I wasn't moving. Behind me I heard the sound of jackboots marching closer, closer, closer.

"_Helmand"_

I screamed for help, but it came out as a whisper. Nobody heard. Nobody was there. Only black.

I looked over my shoulder, panicking more than ever. A mass of gray came marching closer, black masks pointed towards me. Coming for me.

"_Helmand"_

I felt the hands grabbing me and pulling me backwards, away from the blackness. Hands covered me, gripping my arms and legs. I cried, but nothing came out. I was powerless. The mass of gray was wrapped around me; the black masks inches away from my face.

And as suddenly as they grabbed me, they let go. I squinted into a sudden blinding white light. I could make out the blurry shape of a person, towering over me.

The person kneeled in front of me, taking one of my hands and grasping it in his. "Helmand, my dear child. I've _so _been wanting to meet you."

The voice was sweet and kind, so welcoming. But something about the figure made me tremble.

The person gripped my hand tighter and pressed on, the face coming closer to mine; yet still too blurred. The person's words started to jumble together and I tried, and failed, to pull my hand away.

* * *

><p>I opened my eyes in the darkness abruptly as I felt myself being shaken. I flung my arms out wildly, my right fist connecting with something hard.<p>

The hands that gripped my shoulders promptly let go. "Ouch!"

I panted as I started to become oriented with my surroundings. I was in bed, having fallen asleep with the notebook under my head. Dad sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his head. "Easy there kid, I think you gave me a concussion."

I shivered, reaching to pull a blanket around my arms. I dropped the blanket when I realized that it was thoroughly damp from sweat. "Why'd you wake me up," I asked, my teeth chattering as my body trembled.

"You were screaming," he replied shortly, putting his hand on my forehead.

I tried to catch my breath, but I felt a sharp pain in my chest every time I tried to breathe in. I felt tears run down my cheeks and rubbed them away.

"Relax," dad said calmly after a minute. "Just try to breathe slowly. I'll be back in a minute."

He stood up before I could say anything, disappearing into the hallway. I could hear him stumble down the stairs and out the front door. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, a woman was kneeling beside the bed. "Hey there, Helmand," she said soothingly, pressing a stethoscope to my chest as she held my wrist.

I couldn't keep my eyes open while she examined me, but I caught her words to my father as I began to slip from consciousness once more. "He's got pneumonia again. I have a little bit of the medicine, but I'll send for more in the morning if you can pay me tonight. Keep his body warm and his head cool for now," she said quietly as they left the room.

I fought the darkness, scared to return. But my body went anyways.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was bright and the sun was shining when I woke. I stretched and sat up, rubbing my eyes with my fists. I breathed in slowly. My chest still felt heavy. I stood and crossed my room to the window that overlooked the backyard. I could see the woods and the hills in the distance. Birds sang outside my window and the only remaining evidence of snow was a large puddle that had collected in the yard and created something of a swamp. Dad opened the door at that moment, a tray of food in his unsteady hands. "You're up," he said, surprised. "I thought you'd be sleeping."

I shrugged, returning to bed and pulling the tray towards me. I picked at the food, not feeling hungry. "There are people here who would do anything for a decent meal. If you're not going to eat it, I'll give it to them," dad muttered in a gruff voice from the corner.

I slowly made my way through the plate, trying to keep my stomach settled as I ate. "How long has it been," I asked as I downed a spoonful of oatmeal.

"About a week," he replied, sipping from a flask and returning it to his pocket.

Dad slumped into an armchair near the window, his eyes starting to flutter. He'd been drinking more than usual the last few weeks. By the time I was finished with my breakfast, he was snoring lightly. I picked up the tray and took it down to the kitchen, making my way slowly down the stairs as I felt shaky and weak. The kitchen was a mess; dishes piled up in the sink and dirty clothes strewn over the table. Dad usually didn't get around to cleaning when I was sick. He spent most of his time sitting in the armchair near my bed, drinking or sleeping. It was comforting to have him there, even if he did wake me up when he moaned and mumbled while he slept.

Mrs. Everdeen came around that afternoon, dropping off the last of the medicine. There was only a handful of people in the entire district who could even afford it. Though it wasn't particularly expensive in itself, by the time it was ordered and shipped from the capital, the price was high. Dad paid a small fortune every time I fell ill, and I was lucky to have it. Lung disease was bountiful in district twelve, from the miners who slowly suffocated with every breath before reaching middle age, to the kids choking on the residue from the mines. It was common for kids in district twelve to suffer from this sort of illness. "Weak lungs" was what Mrs. Everdeen always called it. It was what I'd suffered from since I could remember.

I returned to school several days later. I was tickled pink when nothing of my apology to Innis was mentioned. I couldn't help but smirk when I saw him next, and he stayed well clear of me. He wouldn't admit that he was scared of me, though. He told everyone that I was messed up in the head, but I didn't really mind. The school year was coming to an end and the other kids wouldn't pick on me. All anyone could think about was the most dreaded time of the year.

Reaping day.

It was this time that I became the center of attention at school, the other kids asking me all sorts of questions about my dad. But I didn't have much to say. I wouldn't have told them anything even if I did.

I'd only asked dad about his time in the hunger games once. He grunted that he'd tell me someday when I was older; it wasn't appropriate for someone my age. I saw snippets of the second quarter quell on television when dad wasn't paying attention, but he always turned it off when he realized what was being broadcasted.

The other kids probably knew even more than I did. They certainly heard enough about my dad from their parents. None of the wealthier children were allowed to come to my house and play, and most of the others were afraid of him. Kids from the seam were sometimes willing to visit, but only if they were invited to eat dinner with us. I supposed I should be upset that I was avoided like the plague, but I didn't mind. I was used to it. Dad was good enough company, and sometimes he'd play cards with me if he was in a decent mood.

One evening, a week before reaping day, I asked him where I was going to stay while he was in the capital. Most years dad would find someone to look after me for the duration of his trip. Last year I stayed with the Undersee's. They were nice enough, but it drove me crazy when they panicked every time I left the house without telling someone where I was going.

We were sitting at the table in the kitchen, a checkers board laid out between us. "You're coming along," he said as he claimed one of my pieces.

I perked up at that. I'd only been to the capital twice before: once when I was too young to remember, and again when I was five. Dad only brought me along when he couldn't find anyone to take me in. I had a good time there, despite spending most of the trip in the district twelve apartment. I got to eat lots of fancy foods and meet some of dad's friends. The closest thing to a friend that he had here in district twelve was Ripper, and he only saw her when he needed more liquor.

Dad was blackout drunk leading up to reaping day, only waking to eat occasionally and use the bathroom. He didn't shower, and he reeked of alcohol. I took care of myself, making sandwiches and finding ways to amuse myself and pass the time.

The last day of school was no celebration. When class was finished, kids left quietly. You'd find more cheer in a graveyard. Most of them were worried about their brothers and sisters who were old enough to be reaped. Others, like Innis, would be experiencing their first reaping this year.

"Helmand, wait for me!"

I turned, surprised to hear someone call my name. Olive rushed out of the schoolyard and joined me as I headed down the street. "How are you, I heard you were sick again," she asked in a slightly breathless voice.

"I'm fine," I muttered.

"That's good," she said as she matched my pace.

Olive was the tallest person in our grade, despite the fact that she was from the seam. Thin as a rail, her grey eyes sparkled and her skin practically glowed in the sun. Her dark, unruly hair was at odds with her otherwise well kempt appearance, which was something of an accomplishment in a place where almost everyone, even merchants kids, had some degree of soot on their person. It was common consensus that she was the prettiest girl in school. She wasn't popular, though. Her father had badly broken his leg in a mining accident, and it didn't heal properly. He was permanently lame and couldn't work anymore. Kids would make fun of the awkward gate he had developed, his leg swinging out like a pendulum with every step. They'd never do it to her face, however, because she had a wicked left hook. "Are you looking forward to summer? What are you going to do?"

"I guess so," I replied. "I don't know what I'll do. Nothing, probably. What about you?"

"I'm gonna help mama deliver laundry. But it'll be nice to have some good weather. Maybe we can play ball again; I miss having time to play with you," she chattered as we entered town.

I stopped at the bakery, buying a loaf of bread and some pasties. Olive tried to turn down two of the pastries as I held them out to her, but I stuffed them into her hands anyway. "Want to come over to my house," I asked.

Olive considered for a moment, her brow knitted together. "Well," she hesitated. "Papa needs help with Betty, but I guess I can for a little bit."

She carried the conversation as we walked, chatting about school and her family. I usually kept my eyes trained on her face as she talked, because her expressions were so animated. She had a small silvery scar that crossed the middle of her right eyebrow, splitting it in two halves. It gave her an intense look, which matched the manner with which she spoke. I remembered the day she got that scar like it was yesterday. I was seven years old, and it was the first time she'd ever spoken to me.

* * *

><p>It was a beautiful day in early June; the sky was bright blue and the clouds looked like candy-floss. I was perched on a wide fence post at the edge of the victor's village, becoming more and more frustrated as I fiddled with a thick rope. I was trying to secure the rope between the fence post and a large oak tree several yards away, but I couldn't figure out how to knot the rope tight enough to stay in place. The stick of toffee that I'd been nibbling sat dejected beside me on the fence post.<p>

I threw the rope down on the ground after several more minutes, disgusted. "What are you trying to do," a voice questioned brightly from nearby.

I fell back off the fence post in surprise, tumbling onto the grass. I scrambled back to my feet and looked around, finding a figure standing under the tree. I recognized her from school, though I'd never talked to her before and I didn't know her name. She didn't seem fazed by my reaction, instead moving to stand by the rope and smiling. "I can help you if you're having trouble," she said.

"What are you doing here," I asked, ignoring her comment.

"Looking for dandelions," she said brightly. "You're Helmand, right?"

I nodded before returning the question. "Olive," she replied.

"What are you trying to do?" she repeated, gesturing to the rope coiled on the ground.

"Nothing," I said, slightly embarrassed.

"Come on, I won't bite," she coaxed.

"Trying to tie the rope around the tree and the fence," I said quietly. "But I can't get it tied tight enough."

She looked incredulous. "You mean you want to make a tightrope?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. I knew it was a stupid idea.

"That's awesome!"

I looked up, surprised. "I'll tell you what," Olive said as she picked up the rope. "I can tie the rope to the tree, no problem. But you have to give me the first go. _And _half that candy bar," she said as an afterthought, noticing the toffee that was slowly melting in the sun. "Deal?"

"Deal," I said, shaking the hand that she stuck out.

Olive set to work, knotting the rope around the post before tethering it to the tree. I studied the knot she tied, marveling at how easy she'd made it seem. "I learned that from tying clothes lines," she said, not waiting for my question.

"Isn't it a little high," I asked as she tested the rope to make sure it was secure.

"No problem," she said, pointing up at a low hanging branch. "We can hold onto that branch the first couple times."

That sounded good enough to me. I watched as she clambered to stand on the fence post, her expression set and determined. Before she stepped onto the rope, she looked down at me and flashed a brilliant smile. In that instance, as I returned the smile, I felt joy like never before. Nobody had ever wanted to play with me until today.

The next twenty seconds passed in slow motion as she took a fluid step onto the rope. I watched in wonder when she moved so gracefully, her fingers brushing the branch overhead as she took one more step, before teetering dangerously and diving off the side as she lost her balance. Even then, her arms were outstretched and she looked as though she was flying.

I stood still, frozen in fear when she landed on the ground face first. She was back on her feet, panting from adrenaline, before I could say a word. I watched in horror as she reached up to her forehead, touching the gash above her eye. She just trembled when I grabbed her arm and pulled her over to my house, banging on the door frantically until dad came out. He took one bleary-eyed look at the girl before wordlessly pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to her head. He swung her up into his arms and carried her quickly down towards town, and I silently followed. When we reached the Everdeen's house, dad set Olive down in a chair in their kitchen as Mrs. Everdeen looked at her forehead. "What happened to you," she asked in bewilderment as she examined the girl's head.

Olive still said nothing, and I looked down at the ground. "Well," said dad slowly. "What _were _you doing?"

"We made a tightrope," I mumbled, my chin tucked into the collar of my shirt.

I felt dad's hand grip my upper arm as he leaned in closer to hear me. "_What?"_

"We made a tightrope and she fell off it," I said louder, still refusing to meet his gaze.

He shook his head in amazement. "Of all the stupid things I've ever heard, that might take the cake," he said disgustedly.

"Well," he said after a moment. "Are you going to introduce me?"

I looked up quizzically. "You want to tell me your friend's name," he pressed.

"Olive," she said, speaking for the first time since we'd left the tree.

"You got any family, Olive," dad asked, his tone a bit more friendly.

"We live down the street," she said, gesturing to the right of the Everdeen's home. "The gray house on the corner."

"I'm gonna go get your parents if everything's ok here," dad said, looking to Mrs. Everdeen as he headed to the door.

"We'll be fine," she replied, dabbing at the blood on Olive's forehead with a clean cloth.

When Mrs. Everdeen moved towards her with a suture and sterile thread, Olive gribbed the chair and squeezed her eyes shut. "Just a few stitches and you'll be right as rain," she said reassuringly.

Without a word, Olive stuck her hand out to me. I took it, giving it a comforting squeeze. "No," she said, pulling her hand away. "You promised I could have half the candy bar."

Mrs. Everdeen let out a chuckle as I pulled the toffee from my pocket, placing it in her expectant hand. "You can have the whole thing," I said, relieved that she wasn't in shock anymore.

She grinned, taking a bite and savoring the buttery taste. When dad returned with a man slightly older than him, I shrunk into the corner. I still wasn't sure if I was being blamed for the incident. The man took one look at Olive and sighed. "Oh, Olive. What am I ever going to do with you?"

"She may have a scar, but I doubt it will be very noticeable. She'll be fine," Mrs. Everdeen said.

Dad insisted on paying for Mrs. Everdeen's services, citing my stupidity as his liability for the accident. I winced when we headed home, expecting a verbal lashing, but dad said nothing. He did, however, stop in front of the house. From that spot you could just make out the tightrope we had made in the back, the rope still standing taught. After a moment, he told me to "take down that damn thing and never build another one," before going inside.

Though we never mentioned that day again, Olive and I were thick as thieves from then on.

* * *

><p>We continued towards the victor's village, munching on the pasties as we trudged through the damp mud in the street. Dad was passed out at the kitchen table when we came in. I shook him lightly after putting the loaf of bread in the breadbox. "Dad, Olive's here. We're going out to play."<p>

He lifted his head blearily, managing a slurred "Hi, Olive," before putting his head back on the table.

"Hello, Mr. Abernathy. Hope you're doing well," she replied sweetly.

I grabbed a ball from the front closet and we returned to the gravel path that ran down the center of the village, taking turns throwing the ball onto the roof of an empty house and trying to catch it before it hit the ground. "So," Olive began after a few minutes. "Are you staying with the Undersee's?"

"No," I answered. "They can't take me this year. I'm going with my dad."

"To the capital? Wow," Olive marveled. "I hope I get to visit the capital someday."

"It's not that great," I replied. "I'll probably just stay in the tribute center most of the time."

Olive was silent for a few moments, tossing the ball up for me to catch. "Are you going to the reaping?"

"Do I have a choice?"

We both laughed humorlessly. Attending the reaping was mandatory for everyone.

Olive didn't have anything to worry about this year; her older brother, Tenor, was only eleven and she had two years until she was old enough. It was still hard for them. Until Tenor was twelve years old, they couldn't collect tesserae. They barely scraped enough together to keep from starving. Olive would never admit that she was hungry, though.

We only had another ten minutes or so of time together before Tenor appeared by the entrance to the village. "Olive, dad wants you home. It's getting dark."

Olive gave me a small smile and said she'd see me tomorrow, before joining Tenor at the gate. He waved at me as they left, racing each other down the path towards town. I went inside, finding my dad in the same spot where I'd left him. I murmured a good night to him, knowing he didn't hear it, before cutting myself some of the bread and heading upstairs.

Hope you like the second chapter. For those of you who caught it early enough, I did end up splitting the first chapter and expanding on each half. Criticism, comments, suggestions, etc. are all welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

"Dad, wake up."

I leaned over the chair hesitantly, patting dad on the knee and shaking his arm. He mumbled incoherently, raising a hand to wave me away.

"DAD, WAKE UP," I said loudly. "THE HEAD PEACEKEEPER IS AT THE DOOR, HE SAYS YOU'RE LATE."

Dad raised his head, clearly trying to peace together what I was saying as though it was a riddle. "Slow down, slow down," he said, rubbing his temples in discomfort. "Who?"

"Cray," I repeated. "He says the reaping's in fifteen minutes. You're supposed to be there already."

"Well why didn't you wake me up earlier," he asked heatedly, rising from the armchair and hobbling to the door, his joints seized up from sleeping in an awkward position.

"I tried waking you up an hour ago! You wouldn't budge," I snapped, irritated by the unfair accusation.

I huffed, brushing around him to return to the front door. Cray leaned against a railing, his foot on the top step, looking around aimlessly. "Sorry sir, he'll be down in a few minutes," I said apologetically.

Cray stood once more, waving his hand dismissively and chortling good-naturedly. "No need to apologize, boy. I figured Haymitch was hitting the bottle pretty hard."

My jaw clenched and I offered a tight-lipped smile as he turned away before I shut the door. I wanted nothing more than to punch him square in the mouth. I could hear my father upstairs, moving like a hurricane through the bedroom he rarely used. The sound of furious swearing and small objects falling on the floor resounded through the house as he rushed to wash up and change clothes. He reappeared several minutes later, his shirt half buttoned and wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot. He pulled a pair of brown leather shoes from the front closet and fell over against the door in his effort to pull them on without pausing. When he straightened, he gave me a hard look as he straightened his shirt. He was silently daring me to say something as I bit my lip in an effort to keep a straight face.

The assembly of people spread throughout the square in front of the Justice Building mulled around restlessly, teenagers shifting nervously as the ceremony began. Dad mounted the stage, collapsing into a chair beside mayor Undersee and Drusilla Peverell, the escort for district twelve.

I searched through the throng until I found Olive and her siblings, standing to the right of the twelve year olds. Olive wore a gray smock, her hair neatly combed and pinned out of her face. She shot me a begrudging look when I joined her, tugging uncomfortably at the dress. She absolutely hated dresses, and this was the only time of the year I ever saw her in anything other than pants. I gestured up at Drusilla, veering Olive towards another subject. "Did you get a look at what the escort is wearing?"

"How could I not," Olive replied, giggling. "She looks like a bumblebee."

Drusilla was known for wearing outlandishly extravagant outfits. Last year she looked like a dominatrix with a skin-tight cerulean leather jumpsuit and flared chiffon skirt, her hair coiled into impossibly tight pin curls and her lips painted black. This year she had taken a different approach, wearing a bright yellow kameez dotted with honeycombs and shimmering black hosiery. Her hair was practically white, fluffed up like a poodle. She wore massive sunglasses to complete the look, giving her a bug eyed impression. She sat between my dad and the mayor, her lips pursed and her ankles crossed, clearly making a concerted effort not to show distaste at my dad's disheveled appearance.

The crowd fell silent as the mayor stood, moving forward to the microphone and beginning his speech. It's exactly the same every year; the rebellion, the war, the peace, and the sacrifice. Everyone must pay for our forefathers treason. "And with that, welcome to the 65th Hunger Games."

Dad looked like a hot mess. Clearly not paying attention, the mayor repeated his name several times before he stood in acknowledgement, barely managing to remain erect for more than a few seconds. I bit my lip when I heard quiet chortling behind me. I turned to find Innis standing a few feet away, his face screwed up in a look of utter contempt.

I felt Olive's hand close around my balled up fist, giving it a squeeze. "Remember we're on tv," she warned quietly. "It's not worth it."

The tension melted quickly as we were redirected to the podium. Drusilla rose from her chair, taking dainty steps to the microphone. She smiled widely, revealing her perfectly white teeth, as though she didn't wish for anything more than to be here with us. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!"

She has the same script she follows every year, and every year she repeats it as theatrically as though it's an opera. "Ladies first!"

The feeling of fear and dread was almost palpable. The only sound in the square was Drusilla's heels clacking on the stage. Everyone collectively sucked in their breath as she fished around in the girls' bowl for a moment before pulling out a slip of paper with a flourish.

"Fawn Smythe!"

The crowd relaxed into a rustling as everyone looked around for the girl. It wasn't hard to spot her; those surrounding her backed away as though she was a black spot. She looked like she had been kicked in the stomach. Maybe fifteen or sixteen, she was gangly and frail. From the look of her clothes, she wasn't from the seam, but not from a well to do family either. She'd likely gotten her name from the fawn colored hair that swept over her eyes, partially shielding her expression. She ran her hand through her hair compulsively as she was beckoned forward. She was too overwhelmed to cry, but she was wide eyed and her mouth was slack, agape.

A guttural sound echoed from the back of the square, and I turned in time to see a woman, likely her mother, fall to her knees in despair. The man beside her stood close enough to be easily associated, but didn't move to comfort her. He stared straight ahead, past Fawn, into the abyss. When Fawn stood beside Drusilla on the stage, she ignored Drusilla's congratulations. Her eyes didn't flicker from her parents.

When Drusilla called out the boys name, "Sage Rothschild!", the boy didn't react as smoothly as Fawn. He was young, possibly thirteen or fourteen, his scarecrow physique and grey eyes giving away his origin from the seam. He shook uncontrollably, his knees knocking and his chin wobbling as he was led by peacekeepers to the stage. There was no sound from inconsolable parents; he had no family left, save an older brother who looked upset, but resigned.

They were a pathetic pair side by side. As likely a set as there ever was, year after year in district twelve.

When dad shuffled forward to greet them, the boy took his hand gratefully. The girl, however, brushed his hand away. It wasn't in resentment; more as you would an insect flying near your face. She was still distracted by her mother, who was now being led away by several other women.

Nobody was paying attention when the mayor read the Treaty of Treason. Most were either too relieved to have avoided tragedy, while others who were close to the chosen already began to mourn.

I'd only seen the girl a few times as I remembered. We were never in the same block of grades at school. I knew the boy, Sage, slightly better. Not from school, though. He was Olive's neighbor, a friend of Tenor. He always watched when we played games in the street near Olive's house. He always said he was too clumsy to play, but you could tell he was just too weak from starvation to exert the energy. I looked over at Olive, who had turned to console Tenor. He looked heartbroken as he gazed up at Sage.

After a solemn farewell to Olive and Tenor, I made my way over to the stage when the mayor finished reading the Treaty of Treason. Dad left the stage, pulling the ever present flask from his coat pocket as he took a moment to get his bearings. It drained him to sit on the stage, watching children be picked like lambs for slaughter, while reliving his own reaping. I put my hand on his shoulder, partially guiding him towards the car that puttered with the door open, waiting to take us to the train station.

Fawn and Sage had been taken back inside the Justice Building to say their final farewells. I imagined the boy crying as he held onto his older brother, and the girl consoling her mother and father, and I felt sick. I couldn't imagine the feeling; having a few minutes to say goodbye to the people you loved. Then being whisked away to spend your final weeks imagining them watching you on a television screen.

I slunk into a dark corner when we entered the train, trying to be as quiet as possible for the tributes when they would arrive. Dad shuffled back to the bar car, disappearing behind the sliding door.


	4. Chapter 4

The sounds of the throng at the train station were muffled through the thick glass of the train windows. Reporters clambered over each other in a bid to get the best pictures of the children as they rolled up in a black car. Drusilla pushed past them as she shepherded Fawn and Sage to the train, her nose covered with a handkerchief to shield herself from the billowing smoke. I hardly got a good look at them as they passed through the first train car, Drusilla ushering them to their own suites.

As the train departed the station, dad returned to the car with a drink in hand. He sunk into a plush velvet couch, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Though the games often fell under the same schedule and the same way of running things, this year had changed. It was dad's first year as the sole mentor of district twelve.

Soren Ingalls, the district twelve victor of the fourth Hunger Games, had passed away last July at the age of seventy-eight when he developed sepsis from an infection that had taken hold of his foot. I remembered when he lived across the street from us. The hedges in his front yard were always neatly trimmed and he made it a habit of inviting us for dinner every Sunday.

He puttered around with an ancient ear trumpet that he pressed to his head every time someone spoke to him. Nobody ever figured out where he dug up that horn. I still have a sneaking suspicion that he was just using the horn to mess with everybody. It was never difficult to understand what he said, though, because he always shouted. It wasn't only his ear that was failing him. You could hardly tell that he had once been a tall and strong young man. He broke two vertebrae in his Hunger Games and adamantly refused to have them repaired, so he developed a hunched posture from a young age. He walked with the help of a cane.

Many wondered why, in a time when surgery was so advanced and comprehensive, he would refuse to have his injuries repaired. Soren was a kind man, but he trusted nobody; one of the phobias he'd developed after he won the Hunger Games. He never saw a doctor or a nurse. This was his demise in the end, as he wouldn't allow the healers to treat his foot.

Soren had mentored dad in the fiftieth Hunger Games, and after his victory, Soren tried to support him in any way possible. When my grandmother and uncle died, Soren stepped up to be like a father. He really cared for dad, and dad was very protective of Soren in return. But as caring as Soren was, he was an enabler. When dad drank, Soren said nothing. Every year during the Hunger Games, though they were both required to come, Soren did most of the mentoring. My father didn't interact much with the tributes.

It would be different this year. Dad didn't have a choice. Nobody else would be there to take over.

I moved to sit in a chair opposite him, grabbing a pear from a bowl and sinking my teeth into it, savoring the sweet and velvety fruit. Even if you had money, you'd never find foods like this in district twelve. "So," I said slowly. "What do you think?" 

He knew what I meant. Does district twelve stand a chance this year? "We'll see," he said wearily. "I don't want to discuss it."

He finished off the drink in his hand and looked at it wistfully. "Be a good kid and go fill this up."

I stood and took the glass from his hand wordlessly, leaving him behind as I made my way through the train to the bar car. I passed through various rooms, each displaying capital elegance. Both tributes were in their rooms, and Sage was sitting on his bed with the door open when I passed. I paused, not sure if he left his door open to welcome visitors. He still looked pretty shaken up, his knees tucked under his chin as he stared out the window. I wrapped my knuckles on the doorway softly. "Hey."

His focus snapped away from the window and he looked over to me, startled. "Hi," he replied.

"How's it going?"

Wow, how lame. I couldn't think of anything else to say?

"Pretty good," Sage answered with a weak smile.

I offered a sly grin in return. "Yeah. Thought so."

"So," After another awkward pause, I leaned back against the doorway and sighed.

"Are you ready?"

Sage looked back out the window, tightening his arms around his legs. "Ready as I'll ever be," he answered quietly.

"I wish I could just get it over with now. The waiting is the worst part."

He bit his lip and he looked resigned. The whole scene was just upsetting to witness. "Look," I said after a moment. "Your team is going to do everything they can for you. Just train hard and _don't count yourself out. _You stand a chance as long as you believe it yourself, man. There've been plenty of upsets in the past."

He glanced back at me and nodded. He didn't look completely convinced by my words of encouragement- hell, I didn't believe it- but he seemed a bit more optimistic as he relaxed. I grinned reassuringly and turned to leave him be as I continued to the bar car. The scenery outside passed in a blur, the sky appearing pink as the sun began to sink into the horizon.

There wasn't much to do on the train, besides eat and watch capital television. When dinner was announced and everyone congregated around the mahogany table, a television was airing recaps of the day's reapings. Only Fawn showed any interest in the news, watching the television intently. When Sage sat down and dished food onto his plate, he hardly paused for breath as he began to eat as quickly as possible, his eyes widened in awe at the spread laid out before him.

"Easy, take it easy," dad said, attempting to placate the boy and waving his hand and for Sage to slow down.

"You'll just make yourself sick if you eat that fast. Chew every bite four times."

Sage made a small effort to calm down, his head nodding in rhythm as he counted each chew. Dad leaned back in his chair with a glass of whiskey in hand. He looked slightly uncomfortable as he studied the tributes, not sure of what else to say. Despite having been a mentor for nearly fifteen years, he was rather new to actually fulfilling his duty.

Drusilla filled the silence with chatter about all of the wonderful things in store for the tributes, her voice rising and falling like she was singing an opera. I began to tone her voice out as she droned on, until suddenly Fawn spoke for the first time since the reaping. " Can you be quiet," she snapped at Drusilla bitterly.

Drusilla looked taken aback as she looked around at the girl. Uncomfortable silence hung in the air for several moments as everyone looked at Fawn. "I'm not here to listen to you all pretend that this is an honor," she said tersely.

Fawn glared at everyone in turn, but focused her gaze last on dad. "I want to train and I want to win."

Dad stared right back at Fawn, looking a little impressed. "Well, ok," he replied.

"How do you expect to do that on the train?"

Fawn's expression softened as she searched for an answer.

Dad continued after a moment, his voice flat. "You have plenty of time to train _in the Capital. _Right now you've got to relax and give yourself time to process the day. It's better to do that now and come to terms with your situation than waste your time trying to learn things that I can guarantee you won't remember in two days time."

Fawns eyes flickered back to the television, where the recaps were still playing. Dad snapped his fingers, drawing her attention back to him. "You're going to see those kids soon enough. Watching them on television is just going to wind you up prematurely. Finish your dinner and then go find somewhere quiet to sit._"_

He reached over to the television and turned it off with a snap, then returning to the table. "Eat. Relax. Process," he repeated, pouring more whiskey into the empty glass before him.

Fawn looked like she wanted to retort, but after a moment she rose from the armchair, took a seat at the table, and began to eat. I looked back at dad, still surprised by the way he handled the situation. He seemed a little surprised himself. I hadn't heard dad talk that much in a while.

Was he actually going to _try _this year?

I didn't see Fawn in the remaining time on the train. She locked herself in her room, refusing to appear even when Drusilla, in an effort to be understanding and encouraging, bid her to come out for some tea or hot chocolate. If you walked by her door, you could tell she was sitting in her room watching recaps on TV. I bit my lip to keep from laughing when I heard dad call her a stubborn mule under his breath as he passed her room.

Sage was a different story altogether. He sat in a parlor car, crying intermittently and nursing what must have been a killer stomachache. I didn't know quite what to do, feeling uncomfortable listening to his distress from down the hall. In an effort to give Sage his privacy, I decided to join dad in the bar car. He was sprawled out on a couch, passed out with his mouth hanging open as he slept off the tremendous amount of alcohol he'd managed to consume throughout the day. I picked up a stack of capital magazines, settling myself into a corner and leafing through each one as I tried to kill time. In the end I just took a pen and scribbled aimlessly over each page, sketching mustaches and snaggleteeth on the absurd looking models. Time passed slowly, the minutes trudging by as I watched the sky slowly darken. The sun was setting in a brilliant shade of orange when dad finally woke up. He took one bleary look out the window and pushed himself into a sitting position, his back still hunched awkwardly as the muscles remained bunched up and tight.

I approached him quietly from behind and flopped onto an armchair opposite him. He jumped, and shot me a dark look, slowly shaking his head with a pained expression. "Don't _do _that."

"It's not my fault you're so jumpy. I won't spend my life walking on egg shells around you."

He remained silent, choosing to ignore my comment, and I left the car.


End file.
